


All Are Held in Me

by wickedthoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Identity, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedthoughts/pseuds/wickedthoughts
Summary: Home and identity burn brighter than the brainwashing.





	All Are Held in Me

**Author's Note:**

> Is this what I should have been writing? No. Is it what happened when I tried to write something else? Yes.
> 
> Title from [The Philosopher](http://www.online-literature.com/bronte/1354/) by Emily Bronte.

* * *

Bucky finally convinced Steve to share a one-room apartment in Brooklyn with him a few months after Mrs. Rogers died. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Times were tough for everybody, but between Bucky’s pay from the refinery and the money Steve made as a newsboy, they managed to scrape the rent together every time it came due. They had a table, two chairs, a sofa, a ¾-size mattress, and Bucky’s mother had gifted them a faded pair of blue linen curtains that brightened the place up a bit. The radiator was temperamental, no matter how much either of them tinkered with it, but in the winter they held each other on the mattress they shared, smothered in woolen blankets, and together they managed to keep warm.

In the summer it was the opposite. In the summer they lay as far from each other on the bare mattress as they could, naked, with all the windows cracked to let the pitiful breeze inside. Steve would gripe at him in the sweltering darkness.

_“You’re a goddamn furnace, Buck.”_

Years later, they huddled together for warmth during the nights of the trek from Austria to Italy. He’d been the sick one then, recovering from pneumonia and whatever that Hydra doctor had been doing to him. Steve was the bigger one now, the stronger one, and Bucky couldn’t really wrap his head around the change. He didn’t know how to feel about it- how he was _supposed_ to feel about it. Instead, he enjoyed Steve’s heat beside him. He enjoyed the miracle that he got to hold Steve again, after so recently Bucky had been certain that he would die in a Hydra factory and Steve would never know what had happened to him.

Steve was warm and solid against Bucky. It felt nice to let go of his pride and be cared for, just for now, hidden in the darkness. Steve deserved this.

_“Let’s hear it for Captain America!”_

The men had called him _Sarge_ or _Barnes_ until Steve showed up. Then it was _Bucky_ again, that nickname from childhood he’d been chafing against for years. It wasn’t important so he let it go. He liked when Steve called him _Bucky,_ at least. _Bucky_ reminded him of scraped knees and thrashing schoolyard bullies. _Bucky_ reminded him of his little sisters tugging on his coattails while they stood in the crowd at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. _Bucky_ reminded him of coming home at sunset and kissing Steve on the top of his head while he sat drawing. It reminded him of everything he was fighting for. Of everything he was fighting to get back, even if he never could.

_“Bucky, oh God, Bucky.”_

Steve would moan into Bucky’s ear during their scant opportunities to be alone over the next sixteen months of the War. Bucky would do his best to keep up with Steve, no need to be gentle any more. Steve had to be gentle with _him_ now, and Bucky let go of the strangeness of this new Steve that he still couldn’t wrap his head around. It was Steve, and he was healthy and strong. It was Steve, and that was all that should matter. His Steve, stifling his shouts of Bucky’s name.

* * *

 

Not much later, Hydra took his name away.

* * *

Hydra’s asset took out Sitwell with ease, but the other three targets were proving more difficult than anyone had anticipated. The third target, the ex-military man with the mech wings that hadn’t been in the briefing, was up on the overpass shooting at the asset’s team on the other side. The second target, the defected Widow, had disappeared with her wounded shoulder when the newly designated primary target attacked the asset just before he could make the killing shot. The challenge these targets promised was both frustrating and exhilarating. If he’d ever had a worthy challenge, they’d long wiped it away from him, as was necessary for him to perform to optimal standard.

The asset and the target were evenly matched in hand-to-hand, although the surge the Widow had sent through the asset’s left arm left his response times lacking. The target ripped his mask off, and the asset glared at him. The target froze, and the asset saw his opportunity.

The target said a name.

The name didn’t touch the asset at first. It meant nothing to him. Two syllables; a cloying name. A name for a child, or a pet. It almost annoyed him. He raised his gun to finish the target, and still the target didn’t move. It was too easy.

The winged man smashed into the asset from above, kicking him aside. The asset righted himself quickly, taking aim at the primary target. The name began to touch him. The name, and the target’s shocked face, and there was something there in the back of the asset’s mind. A shadow. A doubt.

The Widow made the asset’s decision for him, launching a grenade over the primary target’s shoulder. The asset ran, regrouping until he saw he wasn’t needed. His men were taking the targets into custody. They’d be dealt with swiftly. His arm needed maintenance. He willed the shadow not to eclipse his focus.

* * *

<<I knew him.>>

Hydra’s asset tried to explain it to the techs and handlers, but no one seemed to understand, no matter what language he used. He was talking about the man on the bridge, yes, but he was also talking about someone else. Someone whose name and face were haunting him as much as the target’s. Someone he was certain he knew, that he could remember, if he could only focus hard enough. It was frustrating him, that they wouldn’t help him focus. If he could remember, he knew he’d do better when they sent him on his next mission. How the hell was he supposed to lead, to perform to standard, if they wouldn’t help him with this? How the hell-

_“ -Bucky?- ”_

That was what the target had called him. It meant nothing to him-

_“ -Bucky, no!- ”_

The target screamed in horror as his hand grasped desperately for the asset’s, but the asset knew he’d feel only air. The target’s stricken face rushed away from him as he fell, the asset screaming until there was no more air in his lungs.

He felt as if he was missing his left arm, as if it was a fresh loss. He felt as if there was someone he hated touching him, touching his wound, but it wasn’t a fresh loss any longer. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want what they were offering him.

_“ -put him on ice- ”_

He saw a flash of that other face, the one he needed to remember, reflected back at him in icy glass. He grabbed angrily for it, a tech went flying, and there were guns pointed at him from every angle. Why couldn’t they understand?

“Mission report?”

He was distressed. He barely felt the Secretary’s blow across his face. The man’s words slid from his comprehension.

<<But I knew him.>>

Why the hell couldn’t they _see?_

“Wipe him and start over.”

That helped him regain his focus. His new screams drowned the ghosts of the old. Bright pain destroyed the shadows in his mind. Hydra’s asset emerged in working order. He led his team. He killed his enemies.

The three targets had escaped custody, and he was to make sure they didn’t interfere with the Secretary’s Insight. He pushed the first target off the side of a Helicarrier and disabled his third target’s mechanical wings, letting him fall. He watched as the infuriating first target caught himself on the side of the aircraft and pulled himself to safety. He hurried to intercept the target on the bridge.

“People are gonna die, Buck. I can’t let that happen.”

Hydra’s asset said nothing in response. The words, in that voice, were hauntingly familiar, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. He had a mission to complete.

“Please, don’t make me do this.”

His metal fist clenched. He could hear the heartbreak in the target’s voice. He had the overwhelming desire to drop to his knees and do everything in his power to give this man whatever he wanted. It confused him. It _enraged_ him, and he saw the target’s silent acknowledgment of his resolve.

They fought again. They were still evenly matched, but the target’s attacks were weakened by the attempt to disable the Helicarrier. The target dropped his sabotaging chip over the side of the raised platform and they both dove to retrieve it. Hydra’s asset got it first, stabbing the target in the shoulder. The target pulled the knife out and wrapped his entire body around the asset from behind. The target held him down, choking him, threatening to break his right arm if he didn’t surrender the chip. A yell ripped from the asset’s throat when the target followed through on his threat. Inexplicably, Hydra’s asset heard a small cry of pain from the target as the asset passed out from lack of oxygen. Not physical pain, something else.

He regained consciousness quickly. His arm hurt, but he barely felt it. He was too angry. He fired at the target’s back as the man climbed up to the Helicarrier’s targeting system. The man barely flinched when the bullet made contact with his upper thigh and he managed to haul himself over the railing. The second shot hit the target in the gut and he slumped to the floor. Mission accomplished. Fucking finally. Hydra’s asset smirked as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

_“ -a goddamn furnace, Buck- ”_

The words meant nothing, but the air was unbearably hot. Sweat and blood pooled inside his tac gear. The discomfort clawed at his skin, and deeper. There was a word for this feeling clutching at his heart and pounding behind his eyes. He could taste it in the back of his throat like bile, this feeling of inappropriate _grief._ He wanted to howl. Not from the feeling itself, but from his confusion that he should feel it at all for this target.

He was so distracted that he wasn’t quick enough to stop the target from rising shakily to his feet and inserting the chip into the targeting system. Hydra’s asset raised his gun, but the target had already ducked behind the machinery. A moment later, another Helicarrier opened fire on them. The Helicarrier carrying both asset and target shook from the impact. Hydra’s asset lost his footing. Before he could stand, metal supports fell on him, trapping his arms and chest. He struggled wildly, screaming with frustration and fear when he couldn’t get free. The Helicarrier descended, heading for the river. He couldn’t die here. The mission wasn’t complete.

The target was there at his side. Blood stained the white embellishments on the stomach of his garish costume. Such an impractical thing to wear into the field.

_“ -you’re keeping the outfit, right?- ”_

Words from that strange man he knew but couldn’t remember. Flashes of the target in dim light and different clothing. Old-fashioned clothing. The words felt like the asset’s words, but he knew they weren’t. They couldn’t be.

The target knelt heavily, muttering that name that wasn’t the asset’s. Hydra’s asset glared, waiting for the target to issue the killing blow. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want this infuriating man to be the one to beat him. 

The infuriating man, weakened by injury as he was, lifted the largest piece of metal off the asset’s chest. He could barely believe the target’s stupidity, but he wasn’t going to question the opportunity. He squirmed and struggled to disentangle himself from the rest of the rubble. The target shoved the metal away and sat beside the asset, sad and weary.

_“ -taking all the stupid with you- ”_

Hydra’s asset stared at the other man for a second, both their chests heaving. The flashes- _memories?_ \- of the target’s face shifted. Sometimes his face was large and full, and sometimes it was small and pinched. It made no sense.

_“ -thought you were smaller- ”_

No. The implications were unacceptable. 

“You know me.”

All the asset’s rage, all his confusion, and all his thwarted grief swelled white-hot in his chest. He lunged at the target, snarling.

<<No, I don’t!>>

He didn’t understand.

“Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life.”

_“ -when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?- ”_

The target was struggling to his feet. He held his shield, but his hands hung at his sides. Hydra’s asset sprang at him, his own injuries forgotten. His left fist smashed into the target’s face, damaging it further.

<<No, I don’t!>>

He understood, and it was terrifying.

_“ -Stevie, c’mere. Mmm, you look good enough to eat- ”_

The target said that name again. The hated name that went with the hated face that he knew was his own. If the face was his, then the name. 

_“ -I love you, Buck. I love you so much- ”_

Another blow to the target’s face. The target had a name, too, beyond _Captain America._ Another hated name, that Hydra’s asset refused to think. To even _say._

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Every word was a labor on Steve’s- on the _target’s_ lips. The target was resigned, but Hydra’s asset heard the love in his voice as he said the full, horrifyingly familiar name.

_“ -‘til the end of the line, pal- ”_

<<Shut up!>>

He hit the target so hard that he fell back several steps. The target regarded him through swollen eyes, then reached up to remove his mask.

“I’m not gonna fight you.”

There were holes in the Helicarrier’s hull. The target dropped his shield through one of them and it plunged from sight.

“You’re my friend.”

_“ -I love you- "_

Hydra’s asset sprang at his target, knocking him to the floor. He needed this man to shut up. He needed this man to be dead, and this time he swore to himself that he wouldn’t grieve. His metal hand pummelled the target’s face mercilessly.

<<You’re my mission!>> 

_“ -you’re my everything, Steve- ”_

No, no, no. Another blow to his face. Make him unrecognizable. Make it easier. It shouldn’t be difficult in the first place.

<<You’re my mission!>>

He needed to kill him. Before it was too late, he needed to do the goddamn job and kill him.

“Then finish it.”

The target’s voice was thick, his split lip dripping blood with each word. Flashes of that face, smaller, in similar condition. Flashes of the asset’s hands tending to the damage instead of causing it. Both hands were made of flesh. Hydra’s asset hesitated, metal fist raised for the killing blow.

“‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

No. 

 _“ -I gotta pull my own weight, Buck. You can’t do everything for me- ”_  

Steve. His Steve.

_“ -we’re gonna take care of each other, okay Stevie? You and me, in our own place- ”_

What had he done? Steve was broken and bleeding underneath him, and _he’d_ done it.

_“ -you and me, Bucky- ”_

That name. _His_ name. His name was-

There was the screech of metal and the crack of breaking glass. The target- _Steve-_ disappeared from beneath his hands. Hydra’s asset watched him fall and remembered falling himself, falling to a death that had never come.

It wasn’t the end of the line yet.

His body moved of its own accord. He was diving headfirst after Steve before his mind could tell him to stop. The mission had gone to hell, the parameters of compliance were hazy, but this felt right so he did it. He grabbed Steve’s hand as Steve sank into the Potomac. He swam with Steve in tow and dragged him to the safety of the riverbank. He stared at Steve’s unconscious form much longer than was prudent. He needed to report back. He needed to assess the damage and see if any of his team had survived. He needed to receive new orders.

He stared at the rise and fall of Steve’s chest. He stared at the damage he had done.

“Bucky.”

Steve mumbled the name, but didn’t wake. Hydra’s asset shivered at the name. The hated name to go with the hated face, and every horrible implication of the revelation converged on his mind. He turned and limped away, hiding in the trees. He waited until the rescue team found Steve before he left the scene entirely. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do.

_“ -who the hell is Bucky?- ”_

* * *

He stared at the face in the memorial that was meant to be for him in the National Museum of American History. He’d read about it on the internet, and he’d wanted to see it for himself. He knew this was him. He wasn’t Hydra. He wasn’t Russian. He was this.

He couldn’t stay long.

<<Bucky.>>

The asset tried it on his tongue. He could see Steve’s face, Bucky’s name rolling from his swollen lips.

<<Bucky.>>

No, he stared at the reflection in the empty bathroom’s mirror. No. The name on the memorial had been in quotation marks, as if an afterthought.

“Bucky?”

That was right. He was startled by how right it was, but it wasn’t him who had said it. He could see the infuriating man’s face reflected over his shoulder. He turned, ready for the fight that would inevitably follow, and hated that his first thought was that he needed to finish the mission and kill this target.

The target smiled gently. The asset hated that his second thought was of all the ways he could make that smile wider.

“You okay?”

Hydra’s asset said nothing. He stiffened when the winged target came through the door without his wings. He stood to Steve’s right.

“How the hell did you get through the metal detector?”

The man spoke with open hostility, but there was something in the question that might have been humor.

“There’s an alloy in his arm that makes metal detectors temporarily malfunction. That’s how he got the guns and knives in, too.”

The Widow descended from the ceiling in the midst of her explanation, landing on Steve’s left. The asset calculated his odds of success if he were to reach for one of his hidden weapons. The targets were all wearing civilian clothing as he was, but he had no doubt they were heavily armed. He deserved this. He’d let them get the drop on him. Maybe he’d wanted them to.

“We got an alert from the Smithsonian security cameras. Come with us, Buck, and everything’ll be okay. Okay?”

The asset could tell how desperately Steve wanted to believe his words.

<<I hurt you.>>

He said it to all of them, eyes fixed on Steve’s face. There were scars fading from the wounds he’d left there a week ago.

“Yeah, well, I forgive you.”

Steve’s jaw was set with determination, the winged man’s face was suspicious, the Widow’s composed and unreadable. Steve clenched his fists at his sides. He was afraid. He’d never seen Steve this afraid before.

<<You shouldn’t.>>

“Five minutes.”

The Widow checked the clock on her wrist so quickly that the asset barely saw her eyes move away from him. He understood the time table. Five minutes before the guns came for him. Five minutes before he had to fight his way out of here.

“Come with us. We can help you.”

The asset remembered a one-room apartment in Brooklyn. He remembered a tent on the Western Front.

<<I gotta pull my own weight, Steve.>>

The asset felt something swell bright in his chest at Steve’s reaction to hearing his name. He remembered a young boy, sick and in pain, laughing until he cried. 

“We take care of each other.”

Steve promised solemnly. The asset remembered a young man, healthy and strong, laughing beside him. Except, it wasn’t a memory. He’d seen it in a video display at Sgt. James Barnes’ memorial, not ten minutes ago.

_“ -you and me- ”_

The asset knew he should run until every memory deserted him. Memories hurt more than having them wiped away.

“Four.”

The Widow said neutrally. The asset knew her name was Natalia Alianovna Romanoff. She went by _Natasha._ Her name hadn’t been important to the mission.

“Steve.”

The winged man said in soft warning. His name was Samuel Thomas Wilson. He went by _Sam._ He cared about Steve, the way a man who’d gone by _Bucky_ had once understood. 

“Sam, please. I got through to him, I know I did.” 

Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, his _Steve,_ begged Sam without taking his eyes off of the asset. Steve was so large now, it was strange. 

<<Steve?>>

Saying the name elicited the same response from Steve, and the asset wanted to keep doing it. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do, but he knew what he wanted.

“Steve.”

The asset was aware of the way his voice changed, breaking out of efficient flatness. He said the name, one direct syllable, as if it meant everything. Sam and Natasha exchanged a look over Steve’s head as Natasha informed them that three minutes remained.

“You’re Steve, and my name is Bucky.”

Steve’s eyes were blue linen curtains rippling with the breeze from the open window.

“And I’m a- a goddamn furnace, right Steve?”

Whatever witty retorts Bucky had given Steve were long-lost to time and torture, so he used the words he remembered from Steve. Steve’s eyes were much brighter than the faded blue of his mother’s curtains. They rippled from the tears spilling down his cheeks. Steve’s face was so large now.

“That’s right. Then you’d still steal all the blankets in the winter.”

Steve laughed. This time he’d cried until he’d laughed.

“I’m not him anymore, Steve.”

He had to warn Steve. Bucky was the asset’s name, but the asset wasn’t Bucky.

“Who are you?”

Steve couldn’t mask his fear. 

“I don’t know.”

Bucky didn’t understand why he was so ashamed of that.

“Then we’ll figure it out together, okay?”

“One-and-a-half.”

He could run, he could fight. He _should_ do those things, but he didn’t want to.

“Okay.”

He surrendered, and Steve accepted his surrender with such joy it made Bucky's heart ache. He saw Sam and Natasha relax slightly. Natasha spoke softly into a radio, calling off the security team. Hydra’s asset should attack now, when they’d let down their guard. He should kill them all, finish the mission, and run. First Steve, the strongest primary target, then the Widow, with her deadly training, and lastly the winged man who was rightly suspicious of him. He should-

He was giving Natasha his weapons. He was standing up for Sam and his insistence that Bucky be restrained. He was calling Steve an idiot for refusing to restrain him.

_“ -love you so fucking much, Stevie- ”_

The Museum had been cleared of civilians and there were armed men in dark tac gear waiting outside the bathroom. They stood back to let Natasha pass, Bucky right after her, Steve and Sam bringing up the rear. Bucky dipped his head, hiding his face underneath his ratty baseball cap while keeping a careful watch for active threats. He didn’t question why any of them were doing this. It wasn’t for him, it was for Steve. Steve, who shone brighter than the sun. Steve, who’d drawn Bucky to him a lifetime ago with that light inside that Bucky could only hope to reflect.

He’d chosen Steve, and Steve had chosen him back. At least, he’d chosen the man Bucky used to be. Whoever Bucky was now, he swore to be worthy of Steve, in a way he’d never been before.

“Bucky.”

Bucky turned to Steve when he said his name. Steve sat beside him in the unmarked van they’d piled into. A brunette woman Steve called _Hill_ drove them away, laughing at something Sam had said to her where he rode shotgun.

“You’re really here with me. I never- I never thought- ”

Steve’s face was as awed as his voice. Once, Bucky remembered, he would have wanted to kiss him.

“Where’re we goin’?”

He still did, but he wouldn’t. He wasn’t worthy yet.

“Home.”

Steve answered with such hope. Flashes of what that word had once meant flew through Bucky’s mind, but he didn’t ask any follow-up questions. Home wasn’t blue linen curtains, a tent, or the places Hydra had kept him. Home was Steve. It always had been.

He should run, he should fight, he should die, but-

He was home.


End file.
